Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Riddle
by LoyalistEternal
Summary: A world where there are no wands, only guns… Year One, Alternate Universe
1. The Boy Who Lived

**CHAPTER TITLE: **_Chapter One-The Boy Who Lived_

**GENRE:** _Alternate Universe_

**RATING: **_M (violence, language, drug usage, adult themes) _

**SUMMARY:** _A world where there are no wands, only guns…_

**SPOILERS:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _(none)_

* * *

><p>Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly, <em>perfectly<em> normal. Vernon was the director of a drill company called Grunnings and was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck and a very large mustache. Petunia was a house wife, thin, blonde, and full of spiteful gossip about the neighbors. Together they had a young son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

As far as everyone could see, the Dursleys had everything they ever wanted. But what they kept hidden from the world was both their biggest secret and darkest fear: the Potters. Lily Potter was Petunia's sister, but they hadn't been in contact with one another for several years, which was fine with Petunia as she liked to pretend her sister and her sister's good-for-nothing husband didn't exist. The thought of the Potters showing up at their house was enough to make Petunia and Vernon sick to their stomachs. And their son? He was no doubt the last thing they wanted around their Dudley.

When the Dursleys awoke on the dull, gray Tuesday that would be the last day of the normal life they had known, the cloudy sky outside had nothing to suggest other than rain—_certainly_ not that anything unusual would soon be happening all over the country. Vernon hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Petunia gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them heard a streetbike race down the street.

At half past eight, Vernon picked up his briefcase, pecked Petunia on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," he laughed as he left the house.

He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive. It was on the corner of the street beside the abandoned lot that was for sale that he noticed the first sign of something strange—a well dressed, severe-looking woman standing beside a racing motorbike while looking at a map. For a moment, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen and began to turn on the radio to listen to the morning news—then he jerked his head around to look again. There was indeed an older woman standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a motorbike in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the woman. She stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the woman in his mirror. She was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the woman out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in black leather and spikes and articles of clothes in various states of disrepair. Vernon hated people who dressed in funny clothes—honestly, the way young people dressed! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion, part of the rebel movement. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these punks standing quite close by, whispering excitedly together. Vernon was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and he had tattoos covering his arms! The nerve of him! But then it struck Vernon that this was probably some silly stunt—these people were obviously collecting money for something or raising awareness for some cause…yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, he arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Vernon always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor and if he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on his work that morning. He didn't see the dozens of motorcycles mobbing the street in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as biker after biker sped past. Many of the riders looked intimidating and the nervousness washed through the people watching from the sidewalks and shop windows.

It wasn't until lunchtime that Vernon thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in their leather and helmets until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. They weren't acting aggressive, but they still made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry."

Mr. Dursley stopped dead in his tracks, his heart thumping loudly. He looked back at the whisperers, disjointed thoughts racing through his head as often happened when the name 'Potter' was mentioned, but instead of saying anything he turned back towards his office, almost running.

Once he was locked safely behind his office door, he began to dial his home phone number, desperate to speak to Petunia when the nagging seed of doubt began to sprout. He was being stupid. How many Potters could there be? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Surely such a common name would have to come up at some point in the discussion of people. And what was the likelihood that they were the Dursleys' unfortunate relatives? No, no, he was being irrational. He wasn't even sure if his nephew was named Harry—he and Petunia had thrown the birth announcement out as soon as they realised who it was from. And was it worth upsetting Petunia over something that was probably nothing? He could only imagine the stress she felt knowing she was had a sister like _that_…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was so distracted by worry that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the old man stumbled back and almost fell.

It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a black leather vest and had various piercings on his face. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a gruff voice that made passersby stare,

"Don't be sorry, mate—nothing could upset me today! You-Know-Who is dead at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder and walked off.

Vernon stood rooted to the spot. He had been touched by a complete stranger who'd also called him a Muggle, whatever that was. Rattled, he hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled onto Privet Drive, the first thing he saw—which only added to his anxiety—was the woman he'd spotted that morning. She was now sitting on the garden wall of the abandoned lot. Vernon slowed his car down and gave her a rather stern look, which the woman returned. Should he call the police? he wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Unlike Vernon, Petunia had had an incredibly normal day. Over dinner she happily informed all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"); Vernon tried to act interested. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, citizens everywhere have reported that the nation's streets have been unusually full with motorcycles today. Although most rallies and enthusiasts stick to the warm summer weather for safe driving conditions, there have been hundreds of traffic jams due to the quantities of motorcycles in every direction since sunrise. Police are unable to explain why the bikers have suddenly appeared in full force on the streets today, but they assure the public that there hasn't been any acts of violence."

Vernon sat frozen in his armchair. Bikers all over Britain? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Petunia came into the living room carrying two cups of tea which she set out their conservative coffee table before sitting on his armchair's armrest. He sighed heavily, realising he was going to have say something to her.

"Petunia, dear—have you—well—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry, her head snapping to look at him.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Vernon mumbled. "Motorcycles and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" she snapped.

"Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…her crowd."

Petunia crossed her arms tightly across her chest, slender fingers clutching at her upper arms; the tea was obviously going to be forgotten. Vernon wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Potter'. Judging from the look on her face, he decided against it. However, there was still a nagging question he needed answered and as casually as he could, he asked,

"Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said his wife replied tartly.

"What's his name again?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Vernon agreed, a horrible feeling in his stomach. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as Petunia took their cold tea into the kitchen to pour down the sink drain and went upstairs to bed. While his wife was in the bathroom, he crept to the bedroom window and peered down the street. The woman was still there, her high-heeled feet crossed at the ankles. She was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did…if it got out that they were related to a pair of—the thought made his stomach churn.

Once in bed, Petunia fell asleep quickly but Vernon lay awake, uneasily contemplating the day. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near his family. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind…Besides, he couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on—he yawned and turned over, draping one of his arms protectively over his wife—it couldn't affect them…

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the woman had been standing with the motorcycle was still sitting on the garden wall in the abandoned lot was showing no sign of sleepiness. She was sitting as still as a statue, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. She didn't move when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when a large owl swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the woman moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the woman had been watching, so suddenly and silently that one might have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The woman's eyes narrowed.

No one like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive; he was tall and thin, with long silver hair and equally long beard, and he was wearing slender denim jeans, a black leather jacket that had a large phoenix embroidered across the back, and large, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his jacket, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the woman, who was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the woman seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered,

"I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. A single silver lock pick which he promptly slid into the lock on the street lights main control box, wiggling it around until the small door popped open. Running his fingers down the small switches inside, the street lamps along Privet Drive began to disappear one by one until they went out completely. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Petunia Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the tool back inside his pocket, though left the control box open, and set off down the street toward the abandoned lot, where he sat down on the wall next to the woman. Glancing behind him, he saw she had hidden her motorcycle by a break in the garden wall. He didn't look at her, but after a moment he spoke to her.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the woman who had a large tabby cat tattooed on the side of her neck; under normal circumstances, she kept it covered with a silk scarf or high necked sweater, but she had been in a rush when she dressed that morning and it was in plain sight. She looked aggitated.

"_I've_ been sitting on a brick wall _all_ day," she replied.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall made an irritated noise.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She pulled a small pocket radio out of her rather smart-looking sport coat. "I heard it. Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Large motorcycle rallies on the streets all over the country—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall, her voice rising an octive. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed to blend in, swapping rumors."

She glanced over at Dumbledore, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really is dead, Albus?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

She stared at him in absolute shock and he held up the sugary treat in question. "A lemon drop. The sweet, Minerva, not the Candy kind."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, finding the moment entirely inappropriate for sweets. "As I was saying, even if You-Know-Who has gone—"

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop her. "My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know _you_ haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding as though she was simultaneously exasperated and admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, _Voldemort_, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had resources I will never have."

McGonagall paused before she said the next part. "Only because you're too noble to use them."

"I'm lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The bikes everywhere are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's no longer a danger? About what finally stopped him?"

Professor McGonagall had reached the point of this roundabout discussion that she had been anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day; she wasn't going to believe a single thing she'd heard until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she continued, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are—are—that they're—dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head and Minerva choked back a gasp.

"Lily and James…I can't believe it…I didn't want to believe it…Oh, Albus…"

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.

"I know…I know…" he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But—he didn't. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he tried kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's was injured—and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded once more.

"It's—it's true?" McGonagall's voice faltered. "After all he's done…all the people he's killed…he dies trying to kill a little boy? It's just astounding…of all the things to stop him…but how on earth did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess for now," said Dumbledore.

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he looked down at the golden watch on his wrist; it was an actual Rolex that had been given as a gift to him many years ago by a student whom had admired him greatly. The small hands moved around the face silently and he noted,

"Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

Dumbledore's placid smile returned. "I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" Professor McGonagall hissed, feeling faint. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend!—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future—there will be books written about Harry—every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, but changed her mind because this was Albus Dumbledore—he didn't make decisions on whim. "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?"

"Hagrid's bringing him."

She gave him a sharp look. "You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore said without hesitation.

McGonagall quickly rephrased what she meant. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, but you can't pretend he's not careless. He isn't an actual member of the—"

She stopped talking as a low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked to the west—and a huge, impressively chromed motorcycle came around the corner of Privet Drive and stopped in the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was large, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost two feet taller normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked impossibly massive and equally wild—long tangles of bushy black hair and beard that hid most of his face, gigantic hands that looked as though they could cover a dinner plate, and feet clad in the largest leather boots anyone had ever seen. Out of the vast leather jacket he wore, he removed a small bundle of blankets that had been tucked safely against his chest. Cradling the bundle is his muscular arms, he looked to Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved; in greeting, he steepled his fingers and brought his thumbs together so that his hands formed a triangle. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

He gave a nod. "Were there any problems?"

"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the cops started swarmin' around. He was cryin' fer a while and I didn' have nothin' to feed him…he fell asleep as we was drivin' through Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped burn, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that from…?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

She studied it closely; the baby didn't seem to be in any pain from the burn, which was a relief as she didn't have a first aid kit with her. She also didn't have to be an expert to see it was a chemical burn, something that made her stomach churn.

"Shouldn't we do something about it, Dumbledore?" she asked softly, touching the baby's face gently.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid.

Dumbledore smiled and Hagrid bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily an' James dead—an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall in front of the house and walked to the front door.

He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out from inside his jacket, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out. From within one of their jackets a small hiss of static indicated that someone was trying to make contact.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We have no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, he steepled his fingers into a triangle much as Dumbledore had before, then swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it took off down the street and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her.

Professor McGonagall blew her nose into a handkerchief as a reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and flipped all the switches in the street lamp control box. Almost immediately all twelve street lamps came alive again so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out McGonagall pulling her bike out from behind the garden wall, silently pushing it around the corner of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured as he pushed the control box's door shut once more.

A breeze moved through the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which was silent and tidy under the night sky, the very last place anyone would expect anything unusual to happen. Definitely not the place people who rode motorcycles visited. Certainly not the place where babies were left on front steps. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up; one of his small hands closed on the letter beside him, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by his Aunt Petunia's scream as she opened the front door to collect the morning paper for his Uncle Vernon, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. He didn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:

"To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!"


	2. The Snake

**CHAPTER TITLE:**_ Chapter Two-The Snake_

**GENRE:** _Alternate Universe_

**RATING: **_M (violence, language, drug usage, adult themes) _

**SUMMARY:** _A world where there are no wands, only guns…_

**SPOILERS:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _(none)_

* * *

><p>Nearly ten years passed from the night a small boy was left on the doorstep of a house on Privet Drive, but it had hardly changed in appearance since then. Tidy front gardens that seemed identical to one another, brass numbers on front doors that were all the same size and style, and tall street lights that were about to turn off now that the sun had started to rise. The only sign of something different was that the abandoned lot had finally had a house built on it, though it looked like every other house on the street, creating an eerie uniformity.<p>

In house number four, the morning light crept through the living room windows, illuminating the same room that Vernon Dursley had seen the news report about the motorcycle riders throughout the country. The only indication that time had passed was on the mantlepiece; ten years ago, there had been a large quantity of framed photos of a fat infant wearing different coloured bonnets and posed with stuffed toys. Now there photos of Dudley Dursley as he'd become older: a large boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. By all accounts, it looked to be a house containing only a family of three.

However, Harry Potter was living there as well, at the moment residing in the small cupboard beneath the staircase. He was dreaming of a motorcycle, though that came to an abrupt end as his Aunt Petunia rapped her knuckles against the cupboard door, her voice shrill.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

He heard her walking to the kitchen and the sound of a frying pan being placed onto the stove. He stretched on his small bed, trying to remember the dream he'd been having—it wasn't the first time he'd dreamt of motorcycles, but that didn't make it any less good.

"Are you up yet?" she demanded, returning to his door.

"Nearly," said Harry.

"Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Harry groaned.

"What did you say?" his aunt snapped through the door.

"Nothing, nothing..."

Harry couldn't believe that he had forgotten it was Dudley's birthday. Slowly, he sat up and started looking for socks in the small plastic tub of clothes under his rollaway cot. Once dressed, he went down the hall into the kitchen where he found the table almost hidden under all the wrapped birthday presents; it appeared that Dudley was going to receive everything he'd asked for—a new computer, a second television, a racing bike (which baffled Harry as Dudley was very fat and hated exercise), and a VCR. Harry didn't feel jealousy, simply disgust and irritation.

Harry's Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen, staring at him suspiciously as he sat down at the table, snatching up a newspaper that Aunt Petunia had laid out for him.

"Comb your hair!" he barked at him.

Harry said nothing as he turned over the bacon in the pan, feeling his uncle's eyes watching him over the top of his newspaper. He supposed it was better than usual shout about Harry needing a haircut. Resisting the urge to touch his hair, which had only just grown back to a normal length during this summer, he paid attention to the food he was supposed to be preparing for his cousin.

Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together; Aunt Petunia kept it cropped so short during the school year that he was almost bald except for the bangs which she left 'to hide that horrible scar'. Dudley often sat across from at the kitchen table while Harry had his hair cut, laughing himself silly at his appearance. Harry supposed it was very generous that his aunt allowed his hair to grow over the summer, though he imagined it was because he wasn't taken out in public during the summer so they didn't have to worry about how his hair looked. A small knot of anxiety twisted in his stomach as he thought about the upcoming school year and how he'd be laughed at for everything from the oversized clothes that used to belong to Dudley to his hair to his taped glasses.

At the moment, Harry felt he looked fairly normal and somewhat forgettable. Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He had a thin face, knobby knees, black hair that was untidy, and bright green eyes. The glasses he wore were held together with a lot of scotch tape due to all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. To be honest, the only thing he liked about his own appearance was the odd darkened burn scar on his forehead that looked like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said. "And don't ask questions."

Don't ask questions—that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked like a very young, mustacheless version of Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face, not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley looked like a baby angel—Harry often said that Dudley looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here under this big one from Mommy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face.

Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said slowly, "So I'll have thirty...thirty..."

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, giving him a hopeful smile.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled. "Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs. Figg's broken her leg. She can't take him."

She jerked her head in Harry's direction. Dudley's mouth fell open in horror, but Harry's heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived on the corner of Privet Drive. Harry hated it there—the whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he'd planned this.

Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn't easy when he reminded himself it would be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and Tufty again.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested, his brow beginning to furrow.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the boy."

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn't there—or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend—Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Harry put in hopefully (he'd be able to watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go on Dudley's computer).

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon.

"And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled.

"I won't blow up the house," said Harry, but they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take him to the automobile expo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "...and leave him in the car..."

"That car's new, he's not sitting in it alone..."

Dudley began to cry loudly. Actually, Harry knew for a fact he wasn't really crying—it had been years since he'd really cried—but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Dinky Duddydums, don't cry, Mummy won't let him spoil your special day!" Aunt Petunia cried, flinging her arms around him.

"I...don't...want...him...t-t-to come!" Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs. "He always sp-spoils everything!" He shot Harry a nasty grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang and Aunt Petunia proclaimed frantically, "Oh, good Lord, they're here!"

A moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat. He was usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn't believe his luck, was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to somewhere fun for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Harry aside.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Harry's, "I'm warning you now, boy—any funny business, anything at all—and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," Harry insisted. "Honestly!"

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe him. No one ever did. He wasn't quite sure where this paranoia had come from—that he was a trouble maker—but it was impossible to convince his aunt and uncle otherwise. Today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn't school, his cupboard, or Mrs Figg's cabbage-smelling living room.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," said Harry, remembering suddenly. "I was riding on it."

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache: "YOU'VE NEVER BEEN ON A MOTORCYCLE!"

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

"I know I haven't," protested Harry. "It was only a dream."

But he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking about anything that a troublemaker might do or show interest in, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon—they seemed to think he might get dangerous ideas.

It was a very nice Saturday and the exposition was crowded with families and enthusiasts. At the entrance, the Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers shirts with the exposition name on the front as well a handful of posters and model cars and then, because the smiling lady in the booth had asked Harry what he wanted before his aunt and uncle could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap pen with a red racing car on the side. It wasn't actually a bad pen, Harry thought, considering all of his regular school supplies were ones Dudley had used the previous year or found in the school halls dropped by other students. It was rather nice having something new for once.

Harry had the best morning he'd had in a long time. He was careful to walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who were starting to get bored with the cars by lunchtime, wouldn't fall back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. At none they ate in the restaurant next door, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

Harry felt, afterward, that he should have known it was all too good to last.

After lunch they went back to the car expo to meet the race car drivers. While the Dursleys and Piers were distracted, Harry took the opportunity to go to the small corner of the show that had been reserved for the motorcycle enthusiasts. It was quieter there, with riders focused on polishing their bikes that had been lined up all along the walls. Behind the single rope of metal chain that kept the viewers away from the bikes, all sorts of men and women were cleaning and maintaining the different types of motorcycles. As he stopped in front of a rather large and brutish looking man with the name 'THE SNAKE' embroidered across his leather vest, he could hear Dudley and Piers yelling to Uncle Vernon about wanting to get in the cars.

"Make them let me," Dudley whined at his father.

Uncle Vernon began to speak loudly at the car owners, but no one seemed persuaded to let two ten-year-olds with sticky fingers into their prized machines.

"Do it!" Dudley ordered.

Uncle Vernon began talking even louder, now offering money.

The Snake suddenly looked up at Harry. Slowly, very slowly, he studied his face and then he winked. Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. He looked back at the biker and winked, too.

The biker jerked his head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised his eyes to the ceiling. "When I come to these things, I get that all the time."

"I know," Harry murmured, though he wasn't sure the biker could hear him. "It must be really annoying."

The biker nodded.

"What's it like to ride a motorcycle, anyway?" Harry asked.

The biker smiled and slipped his large tattooed hands under Harry's arms, lifting him over the chain and placing him on top of the Harley that was his. Harry stared at the massive machine he was now atop of.

"Just imagine the wind whipping in your face, flying down the road," The Snake told him.

"Do you ever race on your bike?" Harry asked politely as he imagined having a motorcycle of his own.

As the biker shook his head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT HARRY! YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT HE'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he said, climbing over the chain and shoving Harry in the stomach.

Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened so fast no one saw how it happened—one second, Piers and Dudley were climbing onto the large motorcycle, the next, they howling of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the biker had grabbed both boys by the backs of their necks, holding them high off the ground so their feet kicked wildly in the air.

"WHO ASKED YOU TWO ON, YEAH?" the biker bellowed as Piers and Dudley began to scream in fear.

The Snake began to laugh, looking back at a Harry with a large smile. People throughout the motorcycle exhibit screamed and started running for the exits, the biker roaring with laughter.

* * *

><p>The director of the car expo himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the biker hadn't done anything except playfully scare them, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon's car, Dudley was telling them how his head had nearly been torn off, while Piers was swearing the biker had tried to squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers calming down enough to say,<p>

"Harry was talking to him, weren't you, Harry?"

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to say, "Go—cupboard—stay—no meals," before he collapsed into a chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He didn't know what time it was and he couldn't be sure the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn't risk sneaking to the kitchen for some food.

He'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as he could remember, ever since he'd been a baby and his parents had died in that car crash. He couldn't remember being in the car when his parents had died. For that matter, he couldn't remember his parents; there were no photographs of them in the house and his aunt and uncle never spoke of them, one more topic he couldn't ask questions about.

Sometimes, he dreamed of a blinding flash of light and then a burning pain on his forehead.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A cluster of young women with neon coloured hair and mohawks waved merrily to him once while he was out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry furiously if he knew them, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old man dressed in motorcycle leathers had once shaken his hand on a bus. A bald man with a large gold ring pieced through the bottom of his nose had actually bowed to him in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to disappear the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

While the strangers were odd, at least they were acknowledging his existence. At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley's gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley's gang


	3. The Letters in Yellow Envelopes

**CHAPTER TITLE: **_The Letters in Yellow Envelopes_

**GENRE:** _Alternate Universe_

**RATING: **_M (violence, language, drug usage, adult themes) _

**SUMMARY:** _A world where there are no wands, only guns…_

**SPOILERS:** _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _(none)_

* * *

><p>The event at the automobile expo involving The Snake earned Harry his longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard again, the summer holidays were nearly over and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.<p>

Harry was glad that it was almost the beginning of the school year again, but until then there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry Hunting.

Because of this, Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny.

"They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry on afternoon. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it—it might be sick." Then he ran, before Dudley could work out what he'd said.

One day at the beginning of August, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn 't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

* * *

><p>The next morning there was a horrible smell coming from the kitchen when Harry went in for breakfast that seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. Aunt Petunia was standing over it, stirring, and when he went over to look at what was there, he saw the tub was filled with what looked like dirty rags swimming in grey water.<p>

"What's that?" he asked Aunt Petunia and her lips tightened as they always did when he asked a question.

"Your new school uniform," she said simply, as though it should have been obvious.

He looked into the tub again. "Oh, I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," she snapped. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

Harry seriously doubted this, but decided it was pointless to argue. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he tried not to think about how he was going to look on his first day at Stonewall High—like he was wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table. From the kitchen they could hear the click of the mail slot and letters fall onto the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry get it," Dudley complained.

"Get the mail, Harry," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Dudley get it," Harry complained.

"Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley," Uncle Vernon instructed.

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and—a yellow envelope addressed to Harry.

Picking it up and staring at it, his heart pounded hard in his chest. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He had no friends, no other relatives—he didn't belong to the library, so it couldn't even be a rude note asking for books to be returned. Yet here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was a warm, sunny yellow, and the address was printed neatly in emerald-green ink. There was a no stamp. Turning the envelope over, hand trembling, Harry saw a purple adhesive seal embossed with a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.

"Hurry up, boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk—"

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the same yellow paper as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of his hand by Uncle Vernon.

"That's mine!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it.

His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped, looking up.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness—Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly.

"I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move. "I WANT MY LETTER!"

"Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them.

Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address—how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they've been watching the house this whole time, do you?"

"Watching—spying—might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly.

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want—"

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer…Yes, that's best…we won't do anything…"

"But, Vernon—"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

"Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily. "It had my cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er—yes, Harry—about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking…you're really getting a bit big for it…we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

"Why?" said Harry, not believing this sudden nicety.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

In the Dursleys' house there were four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which seemed to have been hidden away from Harry—he thought that was a bit stupid as there was nothing one could do with the gun after it had been run over by the Dursley's car after Dudley left it in the driveway. Other shelves were full of books. They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley crying at his mother. "I don't want him in there! I need that room! Make him get out!"

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed, looking up at the ceiling; yesterday he'd have given anything to be up here, but today he'd rather be back in his cupboard with that letter than up here without it. And the mood was just as tense the next morning, everyone quiet. Dudley seemed shock; he'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall, knocking off photo frames that had been hung up. Then he shouted,

"There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard—I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley—go—just go."

Once upstairs, Harry began to pace his in new bedroom, frowning. Someone knew he had moved out of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn't received his first letter. So did that mean they would try again? He wasn't sure, but he began to formulate a plan to make sure that they didn't fail in delivering the letter into his hands.

* * *

><p>The next morning Harry woke up at six o'clock sharp, trying to dress silently and sneak down the stairs so that the Dursleys weren't aware of what he was up to. He had decided to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters addressed to him first. Anxious, he crept down the dark hall towards the front door—<p>

Harry leapt back, his heart pounding in his chest; he'd walked right onto something big and squashy on the doormat—something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap.

Harry could see three yellows enveloped addressed in green ink.

"I want—" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes.

* * *

><p>Vernon didn't go to work that day; he made a quick call to Grunnings and then went to the tool shed at the back of the house to get supplies he needed. Petunia trailed behind him, keeping her eye out for Harry as she watched her husband searching around for a hammer. She found it hanging on the wall and handed it over to him.<p>

"See," Vernon explained to her through a mouthful of nails as he began to nail the mail slot shut, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

She was not so convinced. "I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," he replied as he tried to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake she had just brought him.

"I know they're not like us, but they're…they're not stupid. They got to Lily—they can get to anyone."

Vernon looked over at her, confused. "I thought you said the other one killed her—"

"No, no! I meant their school!" she clapped her hands over her mouth, angry with herself for not wording her sentence properly which resulted in Vernon from speaking the awful truth.

She looked around to make sure her nephew was still up in his new room, then looked back to Vernon. "They are able to keep an eye on their own kind. I don't know how they do it. I don't know how they would know where he's sleeping, but they do! They're…dangerous!"

At this, Vernon grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a confident smile.

"Oh no, darling. They haven't met me yet."

Petunia knew it was worthless to argue any further and Friday proved her point when no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they couldn't go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom.

Vernon stayed at home again; after burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

Then on Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside the box of the two dozen eggs and three bottles of milk that their very confused milkman had handed to her through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor, feeling nauseous.

She even caught Dudley looking amazed at her nephew, asking, "Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?"

Sunday morning, Vernon sat down on the end of the bed looking tired and rather ill, but happy. He was putting on one of her dress socks as he cheerfully reminded her,

"No post on Sundays. No damn letters today!"

She was feeling ill about facing the day. She wasn't so sure something as asinine as a Sunday or the Royal Post was going to stop the letters.

But as she went downstairs, she didn't see them stuffed into the windows and front door so she let her guard down and walked down the hall past the cupboard under the stairs and—

Petunia let out a loud scream as she saw the kitchen. Taped all over the walls and windows were letters address to her nephew, stacks of envelopes on the counter, on the table, in the sink, on the oven.

Someone behind her asked. "What's going on—"

She spun around to see Harry who didn't seem to realise quite yet that it was all the letters she and Vernon had been denying him. "Get out! Get out!"

But his eyes glinted with realisation as he lunged past her to grab one of the envelopes off the kitchen table. Thankfully Vernon arrived just in time and grabbed their nephew around the waist to throw him into the hall as she tore the envelope out of his hands. Rushing out, she slammed the door shut, shaking.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!"

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue and so they left him to stand guard of the kitchen door. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; Vernon had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. Under normal circumstances she would have tried to comfort him, but she was so distracted by the thought that they had been in her HOME while they SLEPT.

They drove for hours and she didn't dare ask Vernon where they were going. Every now and then he would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

"Shake'em off…shake'em off," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day, which left Dudley howling by nightfall. Vernon finally stopped outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared an adjoining room with twin beds. Vernon snored but Petunia stayed awake, looking at lights from passing cars reflect on the wall closest to her side of the bed, hoping, _hoping_ that they had indeed given _them_ the message that Harry was NOT going to get the letters.

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

"'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk."

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

_Mr. H. Potter_

_Room 17_

_Railview Hotel_

_Cokeworth_

Harry made a grab for the letter but Vernon knocked his hand out of the way. The hotel owner stared and Petunia cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"I'll take them," said her husband, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

"Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" she suggested timidly, hours later, but Vernon didn't seem to hear her.

Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked nervously asked her late that afternoon.

Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told her. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."

Before she could try to ease her son's mind, Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer her when she asked what he'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!"

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!"

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. Petunia winced.

"I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon, "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat; icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. She was so miserable (and keeping an eye out for anyone that might be following) that she couldn't even find the energy to glare at Harry for putting her family through this. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Petunia's hands clasped tightly on Dudley's shoulders until he yelped out. Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully, looking over at their nephew.

Vernon was in a bizarrely good mood; obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Petunia looked between her husband and her nephew uneasily. Perhaps they wouldn't get letters tonight or even in the morning, but she seriously doubted that a little rain or even an island out at sea would keep them at bay for very long.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them; the spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. She found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

* * *

><p>Outside the storm raged on ferociously as the hours passed; Harry was still laying on the floor, unable to sleep from the shivering and uncomfortable spot he'd chosen to rest. His stomach growled with hunger and he curled himself further into the fetal position, trying to make himself as small as possible. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry that in ten minutes' time, it would be Tuesday, during which he would turn eleven. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.<p>

If he'd ever had a good birthday, he might have started crying from the sheer loneliness of it all, but he'd had worse, so he simply stared at the numbers on the watch. Last year, the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. Still, one didn't turn eleven every day.

Five minutes to go. Outside something creaked loudly and he wondered if the roof was getting ready to collapse. Not that he truly cared either way.

Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be covered from floor to ceiling with letters in every room so that when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he'd be eleven. Thirty seconds…twenty…ten…nine—maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him, his birthday present to himself—three…two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside and they were knocking to come in.


End file.
